The Turk Turf War
by Reno Spiegel
Summary: [On Hiatus] Reno looks on as his troops slowly fall. Elena looks on as Reno becomes a machine. And Rude looks on as Elena destroys herself. The love triangle of an endless war.
1. Acts: One, Two, Three, Four

"Looking back on whatever is done,  
  
Scattering ashes into the sun.  
  
Let the past go into a free-fall." -- November Project, "It Is Time"  
  
-  
  
The Turk Turf War  
  
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Act One: The First Shot  
  
This is the beginning of the Turk Turf War, a long, hard battle on Midgar ground involving the Turks and their newest rivals. Many might say there would never be enough people to work the war, but when you have so many ties with ShinRa and ShinRa's past bouncing around, it's bound to happen that you'll have allies ready to shoot from the woodworks. The times when guns and knives are the only things you want have come upon us all.  
  
You know you're at the bottom of the pile when you think slamming a glass down and hollering "Gimme another one!" can solve all of your problems. And once you're at the bottom of the fabled corporate dogpile, it takes a lot of work to dig yourself out of that hole and drop a bomb on the rest, trapping them there while you walk tall and mighty.  
  
Then you have the people who like the bottom of the pile, because at the bottom, no one can give half a thought to what you're doing, and not many dare to blame you for the happenings outside of the mess of names, bodies, and account numbers. People like then Turks. The Turks have all the power it takes to move up the ladder, but they stay at the bottom, lurking in the shadows of innocence, but leaping into the light of guilt whenever the opportunity arises. But no one cares, because they're still down there.  
  
The Turks like it this way. They're not your average members of the general population, and a few have shed that suit and completely shy from the claim of being a member of the public. The Turks are numbers in ShinRa Incorporated files, on the desks of every higher-up and in the minds of all their targets.  
  
But when the ShinRa Building falls in a dazzling array of explosions and glass, the files get destroyed and the Turks are led astray by their imaginations. They are reduced in the public's shadowed eyes to below just a series of numbers that now sit scattered somewhere between Main Street and Strasse-Burg Avenue. They are reduced to the level of the cowering dogs in the streets, just before a bum attacks them, eats the meat, and wears the skin for a blanket.  
  
So the Turks are a very valuable group to the general population of the Planet. Why? Before admitted into the elite force, all members are stripped of their past appearances, names, pasts alone, and even fingerprints, by technology made by the one and only Hojo Novehar. This meant not only are the Turks unknown, they are untraceable, even by the most highly-respected detective.  
  
So, naturally, the Turks would have very few enemies to organize a strike against them, right? Not so. When the Turks stuck their finger into the mini-war between ShinRa and AVALANCHE, they came back with a bloodied knuckle and an army after them. Then they put a lighter over the line, lit it, and got a spark that blew them away. When ShinRa, Sephiroth, and the crimson moon Meteor were destroyed, AVALANCHE came looking for more fun.  
  
The Turks were vulnerable, now just a small organization operating out of a building near Mideel. AVALANCHE, led by the apparently unstoppable Cloud Strife, was just as powerful as ever, and their bloodlust was to rid themselves of the blue-suited men and woman that worked in that little, run-down ex-motel with bits of Lifestream attached to it from when the explosion, earthquake, or whatever it was happened.  
  
This was the only reason the shells ripped apart enemy lines somewhere between Rocket Town and Nibelheim, while the red-haired Fire Demon of the Slums stood atop one of the hills leading to the Nibel Mountains, Rude the Cueball Combatant to his right, and Gold-Touch Elena, his lover, hanging on his left arm, like a spider, clinging to the wall of a shack in a tornado. General Reno was what he was going by these days, a man as rough and callous as they come.  
  
And on the other line, hovering in the Highwind, General Cloud Strife looked on with bitter distaste, also flanked: to one side by Vincent "The Myth" Valentine, and to the other by his fiancée, Tifa Lockheart the Raven Beauty. It was times like these you had to keep your friends close. Usually the woman or man in your life, and then your best friend. Both Generals knew tactics well enough to know this. This was where the Turk Turf War began to separate the weak from the strong. The two would go at it for as long as needed, neither backing down until their army was obliterated. Minor people helped. Landlords from the towns, coal-miners from Corel, people looking for a mention in the paper, anyone.  
  
The Midgar Times and Junon Press had given them the nicknames.  
  
The war spanned the whole distance between the two towns, and try as they might, not an official could stop them. The middle was a hard fight, where all the weapons and vehicles were used, while fist-fights and whatnot danced along the outsides.  
  
It was a cold, windy and gloomy day when Elena sighed and laid her goldenrod head of hair against the Turk General's arm. Her tone was pleading when she spoke the words. She didn't want this; war meant killing, and useless killing at that. They always used to have a reason for what they did, but this was just out of control. "Reno...when's it all gonna stop?" she whispered, words almost wisped away by the wind.  
  
Rude shook his head on the other side. He was silently agreeing with her. He didn't want to see this anymore than anyone else; it had started with rumbles in the parking lots of the restaurants, but then public fights started to break out, and soon there were thousands against thousands, blood staining the grass and the putrid stench of bodies floating for miles. He just tipped his glasses and looked at the big mob a distance away; the real battle. Half of all the soldiers put their lives on the line and their enemies to the test in that one over there. "Really, Man. You're fucking losin' it."  
  
Reno had never wanted the role of a General. The Turks were enough to lead, but...an army? This was getting blown out of proportion. He just churned inside at the feel of Elena's wheat field tendrils against his neck. He wanted out; he was caught in a prison of enchantment, not knowing whether to hold on for the ride or put a cherry pie with skin on their pillow one night with his own gun. Cold steel would've been paradise clacking against his molars. "He's fucking losing it." The Fire Demon burned another forest with the words from his chapped lips. Her eyes sprung with fresh tears and the other man just turned his head in disgust. Reno had become a machine in the last four months. War this, war that. He was determined to win, and he didn't want to be. "We fight until he's taken out, or until we're down. There's nothing else to do." He wanted to settle down, have some kids, and die with something accomplished besides having the blood of thousands on his blistered hands.  
  
The bald man scratched his head, leaving red streaks where the skin nearly broke open. He was irritated, he was tired, and he wanted Reno to grip some sanity and realize just what he was doing. It was all he could do to keep from knocking the man right off the hill, spraying blood as he flew into the fray below and was eaten by the wolves of soldiers. But that would mean upsetting Elena, and for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to do that.  
  
Had they been married, Elena would've been the wife in the black dress, spilling tears from her eyes as she watched her husband's fascination with the war grow only stronger until she was completely forgotten, but not willing to stop loving; to stop waiting for him to snap out of it one night, come back to bed, and pretend it was alright, while the battle still held to the back of his head and begged him to return. All except for the wedding and the black dress, this really was her. She had shown him her tears hundreds of times, or so it seemed. She had cut herself to show him what he meant to her, but it only concerned him until shortly after she was released from the hospital, then he slowly transitioned back to the guns and fighting and killing. "Yes, there is, Reno. You can give up and let him think he won." All four knew her efforts were in vain.  
  
Reno just pulled his arm around her and held her close to his side, merging their hair in a sketchy orange color. He knew it just as well as she, he would never surrender. "Turks don't give up, 'Lena. We all know that." He socked Rude in the shoulder, receiving a nod. "We've just gotta ride this one through, then it'll be good. We'll run off to Wutai, get married just like we wanted to, and disappear like the wind." He swept his arm across the horizon for emphasis.  
  
She was still crying. She couldn't stop it, just like she never could any other time. She knew there would never be peace in his mind. He would just get worse and worse until he was shooting anyone who met his eyes, the glassy, ice orbs she hadn't fallen in love with. No, she'd fallen in love with the soft, light blue eyes that sparkled when he made one of his inappropriate wisecracks and got hit in the back of the head for it. "Dammit, it'll never be that way, Reno! Don't lie to me!" She was tired, too. And she was losing it as quickly as he. Wet spots blew larger on his jacket when she pulled away to look him in the face. Rude, arms over his chest, still looked at the big fight miles away, though big enough to be seen. "We'll never have the kind of life we wanted unless you stop this all right now!" She punched him lightly in the chest, but fell victim to his arms around her again. She had a while to convince him; a while to change him before she became the black-dress, miserable wife.  
  
-  
  
Act Two: Cueball Combatant  
  
Rude looked without turning his head to see the tops of theirs. A blob of orange like the fires of Hell, whipping out into the wind and then leaving nothing until the next wave rolled in. He just shook the invisible dust off of himself, gave a mock salute to the General, and walked back down the path winding up and down the hill which had become known as their lookout tower, just without the tower. Gold-Touch, the Fire Demon General, and Cueball Combatant stood there for days. The first and last left as Rude and Elena, but the demon's fires only grew as soon as he was back in the base. He had a wall around him; one only she could pass. No one looked at him wrong or talked back to him, because Reno had been without sleep for three days and he would snap if pressured the tiniest bit. Rude wanted to shoot him, to kill him however. It mattered naught, the method, only the result. And if it took death to bring his head down from the clouds, so be it, the bald man said.  
  
The guards knew him. He was into the real base, a dark, cold place with no lights or heat, in minutes. It smelled of sweat and booze from the many men passing in and out of the place, some drunk, some just tired and banged up pretty badly. Instead of lights, they had noise. As soon as someone was seen in the shadows passing a room, someone was in the doorway to call out what it was, whether they were headed there or not. Seeing as how Reno had designed it, it was complex to show off the knowledge he thought he had of bases, and even he got lost once in awhile, though not often. This being so, Rude listened as he passed the doorways, calling out everything from "Bathroom," and "Cafeteria" to "General's Bedroom" and "Exit." Finally coming to the strategical planning room -- they used light for this one, by the way -- he walked in to see their mechanical engineer, known only as Propeller, hovering over the plans for one of his new aircraft.  
  
Propeller was thin, balding slightly, and rugged, stubble donning his chin and a flight jacket hanging off of his skeleton. As if he were Cid Highwind himself, he had to cut down on the chain-smoking when near all of the explosives, but he still sneaked one or two from time to time. He barely acknowledged Rude, giving him a dismissing wave, even, before going back to pointing at something on the plans. The man who stood next to him, clad in a black leather trenchcoat with a blonde army-cut, also had a nickname: Shadow. He was known for the ability to sneak like a shadow, breathe darkness like a shadow, and appear as unnoticed and disappear as quickly as a shadow.  
  
"I figure, we shove this thing fucker right here, we can at least add another hundred onto the m-p-h." Propeller was making their upgrades again, trying for the third time this week to get Shadow to approve him. Shadow commanded their Red-Coated Rebellion unit. A fancy name for air force that did, indeed, wear crimson coats. All Propeller did was design the machines, and then the others would put it into action as soon as the Fire Demon Reno approved or disapproved. If he disapproved, the smoking man was put into a dark room and beaten with sticks. As Rude had said, Hell's fires were the worst when they struck at home, and they all knew the saying around there: "Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Demon."  
  
Rude didn't know if he had an actual job. He just had maximum privileges and stuck close to Reno so he didn't do something stupid like demand they go find Hojo's files and reconstruct some Jenova cells for him, or to make sure Elena kept a grip while her lover slowly slipped into the stage of a full-blown killing machine. He would come back someday, but until then, it was up to the cueballed man to keep an eye on her. He cleared his throat and stared at Shadow. "What're the plans for the next attack?"  
  
Shadow was informed, too. He tapped a finger on his bearded chin and looked up for a moment, then recited, almost from memory, "We drop A and D back behind the hills, keep C on the flanks, and send B into the lines. Then the RCR flies by and rips out a few of their cannons. We should have one of the tanks ready in a week, too." He nodded, as if to reassure himself he had it right, and went back to arguing with Propeller about the design of the fighters. The former wanted them to have more firepower, while the latter wanted faster but a lot less firepower. "The faster, the easier to run," he kept repeating. Shadow won in the end, of course, and a defeated-looking Propeller walked out, unlit cigarette butt being mashed to pieces between his teeth.  
  
Shadow smiled contentedly and sat in one of the chairs at the long table, motioning to another and tossing an envelope at Rude. "Plans for the next strike. For the General. Siddown a second, though. We need to talk about the...Fire Demon of the Slums." He was out of business mode, and was hungry to either do some griping or get information. He could pry and pry all he wanted, but he never did get it out of Rude what his "boss" was thinking. Rude sat down nonetheless and put the envelope into his breast pocket. "You've known him longer than anyone else here, am I correct, Rudolph?"  
  
"Rude." A WEAPON would've dropped dead at the glare that had just flared from behind his silver sunglasses. No one ever called him Rudolph, and anyone who dared to ended up stripped and cold-dead without a face next morning, conveniently stuffed into an old woman's garbage can. "And yes, Sir, I have." He thought of them all as Sirs. He had authority to do whatever he wanted except move the troops, yes, but he positioned himself mentally on the bottom of the warring dogpile.  
  
Suddenly, he felt like leaping into the air and cursing the sun for everything that had happened to his dear, dear friend Reno, and the Hell he was putting Elena through with this madness. But he knew, even if he did do just that, the wind would sweep away the words far before they could reach the flaming ball of detest hanging in the bright blue sky on a summer day, and the wind doesn't stop to listen. It passes on through, takes what it wants, and laughs on its way out. There are no wind therapists to stand around and listen to the complaints of someone. The wind reminded him of Jason Palmer in a donut line. Giddy as a schoolgirl, hungry as a moose, and with the authority of a Supreme Court judge.  
  
Shadow's dead-cow chair creaked as he sat up. They called them dead-cow chairs because a man had once found a tail still attached to his. It was really just to lighten the mood, which it did for about thirty seconds. "Yes, yes you have." He thought on this for a moment, then smirked widely. "So, tell me a bit about...Reno, would you?" He leaned back and prepared for quite the tale.  
  
Rude disappointed him. "Lived on the streets, got in some trouble, and got involved with the wrong crowd. That took him to Tseng, and Tseng took him to the Turks." He was silent. Shadow was far from appeased by his story. He wanted a half-hour speech on everything from how tall he was in first grade to how he took his coffee. Rude had known this; Rude didn't care for Shadow; Shadow didn't get the whole story. "Really, that's about it, Sir," he lied, trying to bite his tongue hard enough to keep from laughing.  
  
The air commander pretended to be satisfied with that. "I see. Well, at the 'm questioning his ability to make logical decisions. We both know how out of it he's been the past week, right?" Rude nodded. The Shadow-Man went on. "At the moment, I'm debating on whether or not an uprising is in order." The bald man's eyes almost pierced the lenses of his sunglasses.  
  
No one would follow with an uprising against Reno. The Fire Demon of the Slums was not one to start a revolt with. Playing with Reno was like sticking your hand in raw meat and then trying to sucker-punch a lion. You just didn't do it. It was common sense to not even bring the idea up. And Rude was certainly not going to touch this with a twenty-foot pole. "I really doubt it, Shadow. You know how touchy he is these days."  
  
"Exactly," he said firmly. Shadow's eyes gleamed; he had been out for Reno's position ever since day one. This was just an excuse to give it another shot. "He's touchy, which would make him easy to overthrow, correct? If we planned this right, we could get him out of the way...permanently." His eyebrows shot up, a sign that he was hinting for the obvious. Kill off the Fire Demon Reno. Rude drew the line here, and he had the correct reason to.  
  
The bald man stood up and slammed a fist on the table. "This is Turk business, Shadow, and it's on Turk turf. You have no right to decide what we do and don't organize around here, and frankly, I don't think anyone even hired you because they wanted to. You're just a big, egotistical asshole with a bad haircut. Get. Over. It," he ground out, punching the back of the chair to accent the last words. Once his best friend was threatened, Rude stood up and made his voice -- and sometimes rifle -- heard loud and clear.  
  
He was aimed to the door, but stopped about halfway there, turned, and flung the manila envelope back at him, brows twisted in frustration and eyes smoldering. "Take your own damn message to the General. I ain't your fucking servant boy." With that said, Rude was back out into the stench-filled hallways, listening to the recruits belt out the names of the rooms as he went to go get something to eat; he didn't get time for this everyday anymore, but now he had one, so he'd take it.  
  
-  
  
Act Three: Gold-Touch Elena  
  
Meanwhile, Gold-Touch and the Fire Demon, the two shells of two people the world didn't know, were still standing on the hill, wrapped in each other's arms. Elena had stopped crying some time ago, but whenever she glanced up, she saw him staring at the battlefield, which just made her want to sob some more. But she held them back for both their sake. If she broke down, she might never recover this time. So she kissed his cold, dead, cracked lips and left him standing there, coming from the lookout post barrier. Once there, Gold-Touch separated from her body, howled in rage, and beat against the invisible wall in vain. They called her Gold-Touch Elena because she was the negotiator on the trades and purchases. In simple, any hand she shook would soon be turning over a lot of gil to her.  
  
Inside, she was a menace, just like Reno. No one without business talked to her, and if they did, they were shaken off like a wet jacket: immediately and hard. She brushed arms with a muttering and furious Rude, then with Shadow, who had on the same appearance and sound. He went out of his way to push her off of him and then storm into the cafeteria, his volume level going up and down almost involuntarily. She wiped her eyes and continued on, sliding an ID card through the slot once she reached she and the General's room.  
  
Another place with lights, just to make sure Reno got what he wanted. She laid out her coat and shoes on the bed, then went to the bathroom and discarded the rest, turning the water in the shower to something that deserved a "Scalding Hot" setting on the knob. Many people used the showers to clean; some went to be alone, and still others went to just relax. Elena went to think. The shower made you think because there was nothing else to do. You couldn't read a book or watch television in the shower, and you sure as hell couldn't fight a war.  
  
She came to think about what happened before the windows were blown out of the ShinRa Building, and their numbers were still on record in the office on the seventieth floor, not plastered against the sewer grates from Main Street to Strasse-Burg Avenue and some on East Boulevard. Before they were a stunning fireworks display in the middle of the metropolis, followed by the applause of the Rufus-opposition and the anti-ShinRa enthusiasts. Before the Turks had become a target and had a chance to lose their popularity, it all seemed good. Too good to be true; everyone must've noticed this, because the pursuit by AVALANCHE came fast, hard, and almost wiped them out on the first go. The first go was trying to get rid of them while they slept; Rude was out of Mideel for the weekend, but the other two were still there.  
  
Strife and Valentine had walked into their home, most likely to find the coast clear, and proceeded into the oddly-silent bedroom. It was odd because they once in awhile got complaints from the neighbors. Had Reno not been awake for his midnight snack and close to the kitchen, Elena would've been taken down right then. With two swift slams, the AVALANCHE boys were out cold on the floor, the name of a respected frying pan brand on their heads. And when they woke up, they would find it to their arms and legs tied together on the shore of the Lifestream lake-thing. She found it a shame that someone had discovered them before high-tide. After that, it led to jumpings on the street and scuffles in the parking lots of high-ranked businesses, trying to clear anything previously or currently AVALANCHE out of "their" town. Then more caught on, came to help their favorite side, and that snowballed until there was non-stop Turk-AVALANCHE fighting in the streets and clearings. Then it became organized; became a full-fledged Turk Turf War.  
  
Elena could almost spit in disgust most of the time, but she was usually crying or too busy trading for this and that. They heard it when they called her pathetic; pathetic for holding onto and loving the fiery General of the Turk Army. She never hissed back to the shadows, screamed into the open daylight, or tried to punch the wall to rid herself of the silent taunts. Never broke a nose or blackened an eye to silent the verbal. She would never try and prove them wrong by leaving him, either. She couldn't do that, even if he himself wanted her to. Tseng had just been a diversion so she could try to deny what she had felt for Reno back then, but now it didn't matter.  
  
Now, they would be lucky to live through the night without a few broken limbs. And some didn't. Some just were left for stepping stones, drowned in the rivers, with no word from them until they were literally walked over. Then it was a matter of whether or not to pay them heed and report their death to the Fire Demon. Most of the time, it wasn't, but then you got the important ones that you needed to take to the top. No one wanted to have the job of telling Reno his best man was shot and left in pieces just outside the base, complete with labels for the limbs and vital organs. They usually sent in either Shadow, Propeller, Elena, or Rude in for that type of thing. Four people he couldn't kill.  
  
Elena reached for the soap, using her other hand to try and turn down the stubborn "Hot" knob. It went on quickly, but to get it off was a hassle. Sometimes it required jiggling to the sides, other times just a wrench, and then once they couldn't get it off so they had to stop the water supply until they could go back into the wall and fix it. She finally did get it to move, but that was straight toward her when the glue released and the knob flew off of whatever metal thing it was attached to. Try as she might, because of the soap she was gripping like a handhold, she didn't even slow before she lost her footing and smacked her head on the now-wet tile.  
  
-  
  
Act Four: The Fire Demon of the Slums  
  
All of this went unnoticed to General Reno, because he was still looking across the fields, wondering where Strife and Valentine sat perched now. They were over there. He could almost feel that. The spike-headed idiot, smirking the same head off as he apparently came closer to victory with each member taken down, and kicked something each time one of his fell. Reno himself was as stoic as ever when either one of those happened. The battle was won when it was won, or lost when it was lost. For Strife, the second. For Reno, the first.  
  
The Fire Demon defied the barrier nearly an hour later, when Reno finally stepped down the path after Rude and Elena, his second face on the back of his head, screaming at followers and deflecting anyone else. Once inside, although he barely was aware of it, Reno was immune to anything. He knew the layout of the place, and whenever anyone saw him coming, they clammed up. Didn't tell him what room it was. They knew he was on a path to somewhere if he was inside, and they really didn't want to be licked by the tongue of the Demon, so they shut up and waited for the next person.  
  
Elena had whispered to him earlier that she was going to take a shower and then go to the cafeteria. He figured the first would be done with by now, so he just went straight to the cafeteria. This was a unique place, because Propeller had designed it and put in special lights. Every important member of their army was tattooed with his or her name on the arm, which went right through the clothing when it was glowing in these "lights". All you could see were the names of people swinging around the room, and the menus for the day were designed the same. They were high-tech but they were slowly falling to the guns and knives of Cloud Strife's troops.  
  
Shadow was in there, to his right. Someone he didn't like talking to was the blonde man, but as soon as he saw the purple label, it jutted up and started for him, fast and furious. What he figured was going to be a punch in the face for all the Hell he had put them through turned into an envelope to the hand, and then the Red-Coated Rebellion commander stormed out, slamming the door behind him and making a few other names in the room shake. Reno looked them over. Mark, Cero, Zach, Lydiana, and a few other unimportant ones, but no sign of Elena.  
  
Reno knew it never took this long for her to take one of her showers, so something had probably come up and she needed to do something else. He was about to turn and leave when he met an arm, this held right in front of his eyes so he could plainly see it was Rude. "Hey, Man." He figured the other had just come to talk for awhile, but the next words made his blood run cold.  
  
"Reno...it's 'Lena..." 


	2. Acts: Five, Six, Seven

"It's warmer in Hell,  
  
So down we go." -- The Distillers, "City of Angels"  
  
-  
  
The Turk Turf War  
  
-  
  
Act Five: What If...  
  
Remember when we said the war was being fought on ShinRa ground? It still was. In his armored car, Reno was driving after the ambulance Elena was on, eyes focused no longer on the sounds and sights of the battle, but on making sure the Gold-Touch woman came out of this alive. Hadn't he warned her not to pull the handle too hard? The General slapped himself. It was no time to blame someone for this; the woman he loved was being taken to the hospital all the way in Costa to take care of her concussion.  
  
Back to the Midgar-ground thing. If you went back to the dead city, with the Turk numbers and top-secret documents on the streets, you would find chaos in anyone who actually did stay there. The residents, except for the mothers and small children, would have bloodied lips, black eyes, and broken limbs. And they would still be carrying broken bottles and baseball bats, looking like they could be pushed just the smallest bit, and BAM. Another life lost in the panic of a street-fight.  
  
Rude, who was now trailing in his green pickup truck, had given Reno some sketchy details. Elena had pulled the knob too hard, fallen, and bashed her head wide open on the tile. When he had finally gotten a chance to see the place, goldenrod tendrils were stuck to the floor in sticky redness, which caked the small step almost all showers had. The corner was an opportunity for injury as soon as it was installed; Elena had just proven it to them all. As much as he regretted it, he had left Shadow in charge of the troops while he went to attend to a "personal matter." He'd been looking through a sheet of tears all the way through that talk.  
  
The Fire Demon was finally released, and the life came back into Reno for now. But how long could he keep it out this time? It was a driving force. To kill. To win. Those were two things he really wanted to do right now, and the Demon fueled it. As long as he had something to focus on other than Strife, the no-brained asshole across the battlefield, he could keep a level head and make sure they all came out of this safely.  
  
When he'd seen her...  
  
Elena was being wheeled into the ambulance on a stretcher when he had first seen her after the accident. Her eyes were closed and her skin fading in color just enough to put everyone on edge. The hair she had still was matted to the back of her head, which supported a crimson bandage; that had once held the color of white. She couldn't speak, of course, but the paramedics spoke for her: Amnesia was likely, just temporarily, and they would have to keep her at least overnight. It had been requested that they not keep her for too long, and the paramedics agreed that they would release her if the care she was going into was suitable. Reno vowed to stay by that hospital bed the entire time he could. He had never denied his love for her, but he didn't exactly show too much of it anymore, either. He never slept in the same bed at the same time she did, never sat down for a meal with her, and was rarely even speaking to her anymore. Once the Demon receded, he was able to open his eyes, take a deep breath, and scream it out as loud as he wanted. It hurt to wake up to see his destruction.  
  
And it was even harder fending off the Fire Demon of the Slums. But then it came to him. What if...what if he didn't go back? What if he surrendered right now, gave them Mideel and found a new place to set up shop? Like Icicle Inn. They needed protection, and they had a bunch of assholes up there. The Fire Demon would be extinguished as soon as they made it there. Gold-Touch would fizzle out into the normal hand, extended to her -- by that time, if things went the way they desired -- husband, asking him to get out of the snow, stop watching the stars, and come to bed. And Rude, he would come, too. The Combatant would be sucked right out of him, but there would be nothing to do about his poor, cold head when he and Reno went outside for a backyard wrestling match, Elena smiling and taking pictures from the kitchen window.  
  
Reno and Rude planned to grow up in a few years. They'd been planning that for a while, but it never really did come.  
  
But what if, God forbid, she didn't live through this? They'd said she'd been bleeding for a while before they found her, and something else had happened. He was sure of it, but if he asked, they would look nervous and make an excuse for leaving. One he'd slammed up against the walls, but dropped him and looked at his hands after almost seeing the flames of the Demon reflected in his glasses. Reno had decided then to wait until he got to one of the doctors in Costa del Sol to ask.  
  
The drive took them into the evening, which held radio messages sent between Rude, the ambulance driver, Lydiana – the bobbing ID from the cafeteria -- and the hot-headed General on Elena's condition. Reno mainly kept to himself, except when he and Rude were playing stupid games over the CB, just to ease the tension. They were putting Elena completely under last time the driver had interacted with them, and then she just tossed them "She's still alright, Mr. Karuno," referring to Reno by his last name.  
  
You should know Rude and Reno by now. Two oversized kids, always competing against each other, and able to turn anything into a good laugh or two. That was when they were in a good mood, and although Elena was under, the Combatant and Demon had been left back in Nibelheim. So, of course, Reno jumped at the chance when he saw a dirt road, probably for carriages, and pulled his car, more muscle than armor, sideways to bar Rude's path. He pointed at the road, grinned, and picked the radio back up. "Lydiana, you go on ahead. Me and Rude've got some business back here." Rude slammed his head on the wheel when the radio scratched out a "10-4" and the sirens died away.  
  
"You're gonna kill my truck," is all the bald man said before gunning it onto the dirt road and taking off. Reno, who thought of himself as a pro when it came to drag racing, was hot on his tailgate. The only advantage Rude had was an automatic truck; Reno had been driving a stick for most of his life. Although he tried to act natural, rage was fueling the General.  
  
First, Second, Third, Fourth. It all became a blur of hand movements as he tried to keep neck-and-neck with his companion. They soon blew right past the ambulance, but the road held; it was headed straight for their destination, which was probably a good thing. Pop. Pop. Pop. The hood of the car rattled, threatening to pop up and let out a blast of steam, but Reno kept on. The Demon had his mind back, and he would stop at nothing to win this one.  
  
The Demon had its own way of fighting. If it could think and/or breathe, it would go on raging. Killing. Destroying. If Reno let it, the Demon could find its way through Strife's defenses and put a katana through his neck. But Reno would never be himself again, if he did that. It was like Valentine's "demon" problem. If Valentine surrendered completely, Chaos, Galian Beast, Hellmasker, or Death Gigas would have him forever. Reno was a closet fan of the old Turk's. He knew too much about him.  
  
But Reno had one difference: He was the Demon. He had control, but it was minimal. If he second-guessed his actions, it was already too late. it was because of this that the Demon reared its angry head and forced him into Fourth Gear. Sparks clacked off as the two vehicles made brief contact, and then they were back, side-by-side.  
  
Rude knew it was time to stop when he looked over and saw Reno's face. Eyes straight ahead, mouth set in a straight line, and arm pulsing with each shift. He would kill himself if that's what it took to win. He was walking the tightrope, and Rude didn't want to be the kid with the spitball that knocked him over. He pushed the truck until he had enough room to turn and slam on the breaks as Reno had done, stopping them both and almost tipping himself. Reno looked as if he'd just woken up.  
  
And he had. The Demon hissed and retreated to its shell, waiting to strike out again. Breathing hard and looking at the road, a van sped by, way too fast for the normal speed limit. But Reno was unaffected by this. He looked at Rude. The man had his shades off and his jaw dropped; he'd seen it, too. Wordlessly agreeing, they gunned it for the beaches on the paved road.  
  
-  
  
Act Six: Ring of Fire  
  
Trailing the van the whole way and dodging the sane traffic, Reno and Rude CB-ed back and forth about its contents, and most importantly, its driver. A paint-chipped, black van, exhaust spilling out of its pipes, could only belong to one person; no one was more of an ancient artifact hunter than he. And the woman in the passenger's side -- if they'd both seen right -- had been in a Turk suit. That was unexpected, because the last they'd heard of her, she was AVALANCHE, wasn't she?  
  
They reached the hospital without many problems, all three vehicles parking incorrectly, and rushed through the revolving doors. The man and woman were in the elevator with the doors closed by the time Reno and Rude got out of the said doors, so the latter two just took the stairs, asking for directions to Elena's room. They made it to the floor just in time to see the other couple disappear inside the room they were after.  
  
That confirmed their suspicions, and for the first time since ShinRa's destruction, the inseparable Turks ran down a hallway and kicked in a door together. For Reno, it was comfortable. For Rude, it brought memories. The shocked looks on the faces of the occupants, the door splinters everywhere, and the guns drawn. This time, minus the guns, but still filling.  
  
Lydiana paled. She knew most of the General's history. Most of the Turk history. And when Rude grabbed the blue-suited Kisaragi by the hair and took her out into the hallway, things could only get ugly inside the room, with the other man holding Elena's hand and the General falling back into his curse.  
  
Reno was a time bomb. The man in front of him, Tseng, easily set his clock. This one had about thirty seconds on it to get some answers before the fires were set and Tseng was trapped. Reno held up a finger in turn for each question. "Why are you here? Why are you holding Elena's hand? And for God's sake, Tseng, why is Legs in a Turk suit?" His eyes could've burned red and his nostrils flared fire. He would've possibly looked less intimidating that way, too.  
  
Tseng seemed unfazed. If Tseng was anything, he was Reno's direct opposite. Calm and cool until he got a reply. Strong where Reno was weak, weak where Reno was strong. He was the anti-Demon. Reno would pound someone to get information. Tseng would treat them to coffee and a game of cards to ease it out of their lips. Reno had a shorter fuse than he had hair. Tseng's went for miles. A deadly combination, those two.  
  
"I'm here because the Elders from Cosmo Canyon found me, nursed me back to health, and pointed me here when I was healed. And Yuffie is in a suit because I made her a Turk after running into her at the Canyon. It seems we may need a new one anyway, no?" He dodged the second question with catlike grace. He didn't know his mistake.  
  
They both wondered, was Tseng so blind he missed the ring on the hand he'd been caressing. "Explain that second one to me, Boss. What the fuck gives you the right to march in here and do that, after all the Hell you put her through?"  
  
Tseng smiled softly, that big, Wutain smile Reno had come to know and hate before his "death." "Simple. I realized my errors and wish to ask her hand in marriage when and if it becomes possible."  
  
Lydiana knew what was coming. Reno knew he would do it. And had Elena been awake, she would've possibly helped. Screaming some made-up obscenity, Reno launched himself at the lanky Wutain man, fist swinging back in sheer madness. The Demon fed off of him; it had him now, and it would never let go if it didn't have to. As soon as Tseng had said marriage, that fuse was burnt down and the Hellfire of the Fire Demon General, hotter than Ifrit's, had been sent through the body of the General, activating the kill-all-around-you mode. As soon as Tseng had held Elena's hand, it was all over for him.  
  
The first target, Tseng's face, stubbornly stayed in place, making it easy to take him to the floor. As soon as that was done, Reno picked his former employer back up and slammed him into the mirror, shards sticking on both of their shirts, but going unheeded, even when the Wutain was tossed out the doorway into a passing medical cart. Tseng was sure he'd seen a needle fly into him, but it was all illusion. The only thing he was seeing was a barrage of Reno's knuckles on his cheeks as the Demon bent over and pummeled his face.  
  
Rude, off to the side, made no movement to stop the many gashes that sprung up on the older man's face, just stood there in awe as Reno's sharp knuckles made their marks. Yuffie was no matter anymore. She was frozen in shock. Another punch, another cut opened, and soon Tseng's face was a mask of crimson and Reno stood over him, panting and muttering, holding his tinted fist in front of his eyes.  
  
Tseng's smile wavered, but refused to fall. "C'mon, Reno...I'll admit, I know...from Rude that...you're getting married... But do you honestly...think...she'd take...a failure like you?" His death wish was just voiced, though heavily-labored, with a high raise of his hand. "I mean...you're in the Turks...because your brother…was a drunk..." He was getting old and weak, and right now, he was cut from ear-to-ear. Reno could've finished him off right then, with a good crack of his mag-rod. But he didn't. The Demon shrank back in fear at this new power; the restraint not to kill his hero.  
  
Tseng, years ago, had taken Reno under his wing as a lousy punk-ass kid with a few bucks and a quick hand. The Wutain molded the now-General into the killing and fighting machine he was. If he knew a move, Tseng had either invented it or been his inspiration for it. Countless hours shadowboxing had been made worthwhile by envisioning Tseng as his opponent, losing every time just to come back and fight another day.  
  
Without Tseng, Reno was just a greasy, punk-ass kid with a quick hand and a bloodlust that drew vampires into the shadows...  
  
He pulled his fist back again, kept it there, and stood up, removing the choked gasp from the Kisaragi girl's throat as he did. Not even signaling a thing to Rude, he walked for the doors, footsteps clicking all the way down the hallway, echoing through the staircase, and only exiting the hospital's sound-range when he was outside and on his cell to Propeller.  
  
The gruff man picked up half-through the first ring. "Prop-Job. You're desirin' it, you'll end up flyin' it. What's the scoop?" This was the man's formal greeting, too. Usually it was something like...well, let's not go into that right now. Just know, someone who calls himself Prop-Job has a nasty mind when he wants to. Propeller was a private businessman, and ran his airplane construction right out of the base. Reno sometimes questioned why he trusted the pilot so much, but that was another story for another time. At this time, Reno wanted one thing:  
  
"Get a plane to the Costa del Sol runway, would ya, Prop'?" No time for formalities. Reno was fighting back his fear. As soon as the Demon had let go, Reno woke up and screamed again, the light piercing through his eyelids and sending a thousand volts into his system. When the Demon, the imaginary tormentor of the red-haired Turk's life, had slithered into the depths of the endless void of his imagination, Reno's fear was revealed, and suddenly, he was lost. He didn't know where to go. "And while you're at it, tell that fucker Shadow to get offa my damn throne and get back to playing with his battalion's cockpits."  
  
"Roger," Propeller grunted on the other end, then turning their connection off and letting Reno move forward to get into his car and drive the way to the Costa del Sol airport. And if they had come out, Tseng, Rude, and Yuffie might or might not've seen it. They could walk over it or pick it up. But there was a golden engagement ring, lying on the cement steps, with RKES engraved on either side of the diamond in the middle, forgotten in the dim lights of the Costa hospital.  
  
-  
  
Act Seven: Running in Circles  
  
"Reno! C'mon, Man!" Rude was spinning in a fit on the steps, the same shimmering engagement ring adorning his own finger for now. Had he stood around, holding a ring like that, and calling for a man, he would've looked quite suspicious. The man's car was nowhere to be found, and, seeing as how the ring was off, he would most likely go and do something stupid like he always did, like run his car off a bridge and blame it on being asleep at the wheel, or going on a rampage with an assault rifle in a crowded plaza. The bald man had once walked in and stopped him before he could commit the second of those two.  
  
Yuffie, the ninja brat from the old AVALANCHE, was leaning against the wall behind him, grown-out hair tied back, arms folded over her still-underdeveloped chest, and an uncharacteristically dark look on her face. "Look, Shiny, the guy's gone and flown the coop. But if I may point out the off-road tracks in the mud?" Her finger traced the air to show him the obvious. A pair of adjacent tracks, speeding away through the grass and uprooting many "peaceful" shrubs.  
  
"..." Rude had to admit, he'd been pretty stupid to miss that. Pointing a finger at Yuffie, then retracting it and sticking out his thumb, he motioned to the green pickup truck behind the Turk van. "You're coming with me." He started to the truck as if it were no big deal. The wind couldn't carry away his words, certainly not by listening and taking them on their way, so all was fine, he figured.  
  
The ninja girl's face lost some color. "Me?!" she screeched, stomping after him and stopping a few feet. "Look, Rude, just because I pointed out the obvious to your blind ass does not, in any way, mean I want to come with you, and frankly, I don't see why I should have to come while you confront General Psycho-Boy. And who died and put you in charge of my life? You have no power over me, and don't even try to put on the big-and-mighty act, because I've seen that one bef -- ACK!"  
  
All protests were silenced when a clump of her hair was latched onto by Rude's iron-grip, and then she just flailed until he shoved her face to his and forced her to look at him. "Yuffie. Listen very closely. You are coming. And you know why? Because you're a woman, you have…" He paused, thinking of how to phrase this. "Well, you have the potential to have tits, and he surrenders to anyone with at least one of those two. Shut up and get in the truck." Her objections died away at his words, and she just glared at him as she stamped to the truck and got in after her hair was released.  
  
When Rude got in, however, she was smiling widely. He could hear her silent question. Turning the key in the ignition and shaking his head, he nodded silently. "Yes, Yuffie, he actually finds you attractive, and you could probably sleep with him after a bit of effort." 'The pedophile,' the Combatant wanted to add, but kept to himself to keep his life. She wasn't a weakling; he had a few cuts on him to prove it. Their tracks melded together when he pulled off the side of the parking lot and into the wet grass, pushing the truck to its fullest just to get some speed. Luckily, the airport, their apparent destination, wasn't too far away.  
  
They found Reno, sitting in his car with a cigarette in his mouth, all four windows down, in the middle of the runway. This place didn't hold commercial jets, which was probably a good thing, because any small, one-person planes could just land in front or behind him. The car was dead or just turned off, and the Demon General was staring into space, puffing on the cylindrical cancer-stick every few seconds, his arms limp on his knees. Of course, it was no Planet secret as to what was on his mind, but the other two knew something he probably didn't: Depression was fuel for the fire. As soon as he gave up, his mind went and he just...snapped. Became more obsessed with the war effort, paid less heed to the others, that kind of thing. Once in awhile, people suffering from the obsession like this would go completely mad in a fit of amnesia, counterfeit or authentic. They would scream about knowing nothing about their past life, and finally end up in the white sweater with the tying sleeves in the back, a pill bottle always on their tray with the food.  
  
When it came to Reno, he was a dangerous man. As said before, he would most likely snap if anymore of this was put on his shoulders, give up, and go nuts. He struck most as the kind of person to sink into insanity, not leap into it with a zeal. He would sit in the corner, rock back and forth, and mutter "I'm okay...I'm okay...I'm okay..." until the words were numb on his tongue and as regular as breathing. And then he would sit there and rot into a pile of bones for the rest of his days. It was a pity to think he'd seriously never been hugged by his father.  
  
When it came to Reno, barely anything surprised Rude anymore. He could run into enemy lines buck-naked and they would all just look on with the pitying, amused smiles on their faces, some doubled over in laughter, others wondering if they could shoot him fairly. But what did surprise him was when Yuffie, a woman he probably hadn't thought about in however long it had been since Meteor -- time was uselss to them now -- got out of the truck, walked over to the open window, and let the General use her shoulder as a makeshift, living tissue, patting his back with a steady rhythm.  
  
Rude didn't know whether to burst out in chuckles or hang his head in shame at the both of them. Either one sounded appropriate at this time. Saluting his boss silently, the last thing the Cueball Combatant heard before he closed Yuffie's door and sat in silence was, "Damn him...damn both of 'em..." 


	3. Acts: Eight, Nine, Ten

"Both dark of form,  
  
Yet pure of heart.  
  
Both lives so worn,  
  
But never to part ." -- Dani - "Our Barren Heart"  
  
-  
  
The Turk Turf War  
  
-  
  
Act Eight: Dive To Five  
  
A young Reno sat on one of the Wutai plains, fingering a blade of grass with one hand, holding one of his "friend's" fabled healing herbs to his cheek with the other. This was what you saw if you overlooked the other three stuffed up the back of his shirt. But Reno wasn't bothered by the fact that he wasn't holding them there, because if you looked at his back without the red and white striped shirt, you would see a field of scars and freshly-opened cuts. It barely mattered when you looked anymore.  
  
The shirt had started out white, then the wearer had taken a few hits and it became a bit brown, the blood drying onto it. But after a few more years, it fell together almost perfectly, the shaded colors. Had he cared, he would've cracked a joke about being an unintentional, talented tye-dyer.  
  
His father drank. His brother used to drink under his supervision. His father had left them almost a year ago, and he rarely saw him anymore. Just chance meetings in town where Reno would turn his eyes away and pretend not to notice. They lived out on a farm, and the only reason he, his mother, and his brother were still going was because of the latter's work in the fields.  
  
Had Reno known the true meaning of the term, he would've called him a slave.  
  
His brother was still living at home, a tall, lean role-model. The smartest in the class despite the drug and alcohol addictions, Zen had made a name for himself by playing on almost all the school teams, regardless of the sport. Tremor was his favorite, and because of that, it was also Reno's. Or, at least, it had been at one time.  
  
But now, he barely saw more of his brother than the graduation ring on his hand, when it was speeding toward him or pulling away -- at this time, it went from blue to purple, for obvious reasons -- or his brown shoe, when it licked out like Hellfire, or crashed down like lightning. Every night there were fights between the siblings, never just staying at the verbal level, and his mother would continue knitting, as if under a spell to the point where she couldn't do anything, only blankly glance over at them from time to time.  
  
His mother had barely spoken two words to the entire family since his father left, moved in town with his new girlfriend, and left them with the farm. She had gone to knitting, and now none of them had to worry about socks or sweaters anymore. At the request of either one, you would most likely find it on your pillow the next morning.  
  
But his brother still drank, and tonight, the younger, just five-years-old and still with hundreds of blows taken, and smacks from a belt across his spinal cord, which felt as if it would pop out of his skin any day now, had gotten off with a warning. A swollen cheek and a few more belt-whips. Not to mention his eye was black from two days ago, but he shuddered at the thought as he lay in the grass, around midnight on a Tuesday. Or Wednesday. The time melted together like his bruises.  
  
"Again?"  
  
A whimper in his throat was all he could force out without breaking down. Reno had learned not to cry when it hurt, to just think of what happened afterward. He would run out to the field and get a few different medicines from his "friend", his beacon of light in the hurricane. When he came out here, he was free for a minimum of two hours.  
  
"God, Karuno. What happened this time?" He'd cleaned up his mouth because of this guy. The man with the long, black ponytail and the shining revolver. The man with the red dot on his forehead and the vast fields of patience, earned through long hours doing...whatever he did. He'd never asked his name, just taken the healing plants he gave him and tossed distracting talk back and forth for a while.  
  
Reno's mother never did know him. Reno's mother had never found out about their meetings, as far as he knew. It was tonight he would make the decision that would shape his own future, but he didn't know it for almost twenty years. Tseng smiled warmly at him, holding a flashlight and a briefcase tonight. "You're not happy here, are you, Reno?"  
  
The fire-headed boy muttered something and shook his head furiously. The tall man asked if he wanted to come with him. He didn't look too old, maybe eighteen at the most, but he was both courteous and caring. Reno knew him as the man at the end of the fairy tales he used to have read to him before going to bed. And when he nodded, he became the lost little boy who was finally returned to his parents about three sentences before the end.  
  
The black-haired man stuck his hand out and grinned widely. "Reno... I'll teach you everything you'll need to know, but even better, I'll make you happy... We'll leave and you'll never have to see these people again. How would you like that?"  
  
Reno's bottom lip quivered, but then he put his little fingers inside the man's large hand and said, "What's your name, anyway?" The deciding question. Reno had learned, whenever you asked someone their name, you were obligated to follow their commands and respect them to the edge of the Planet. As soon as Reno had desired the name of the tall man, he had signed away his true freedom.  
  
The man with the red dot on his forehead paused for a moment, then put away the flashlight squeezed in his elbow and hefted the five-year-old into his arms, just like the father he'd never truly had. "Tseng. You can call me anything you want, though."  
  
The redhead buried his head in Tseng's shoulder and choked on a cry. "Then...I'm scared, Dad..."  
  
-  
  
Act Nine: Ditching Mideel  
  
In fifteen years, Tseng had taught him the rules of life, and shaped him into a walking, talking, makeshift son below the Plate of Midgar. In eighteen years, Reno had opened up to a perky blonde with a feigned hatred toward him, and in just twenty years, Reno was sitting in a dark room with a crackling fire and a cup of green tea, hating Tseng himself. The fiery Demon of the Turk Army, the envy of all the warlords because of his ability to almost shape-shift into a killing machine.  
  
Let them have his curse, then. He said, let them come, take it, and leave him in peace. But he was stuck with it, all because he'd taken the red-dot man's hand one night and called him Dad. Because Tseng had changed him from a young copy of himself into a young opposite, training him in stealth, math, reading, all of it, until he was ready to put on a pair of shades and a blue suit and forget all of it; pretend to be from Midgar.  
  
"Fuck me."  
  
Reno started, looking at the young woman across the table, who looked just as puzzled and had her own cup nestled in her hands. Legs Kisaragi, he'd called her before. For obvious reasons, you know. With a once-over when he had cleared his eyes of hatred for his old employer, he'd noted that Yuffie was shaping up to be quite a looker. "What...?"  
  
She held up an empty cup, craned her neck, and shook it a bit, accenting all three next syllables. "Sucky tea?" She looked even more confused when he sunk back into the worn pillows of the couch, set the cup on the table, and rubbed his face while shaking his head. "I've never been the best, y'know."  
  
Propeller had, at their request, flown them all the way to Wutai and then gone back to the battlefield with Rude. Rude would play General for as long as they thought they should stay here, Reno guessed, but it still confused him that Yuffie had even come in the first place. They were back in his old house, which was now empty and didn't exactly look like it was hot on the market. Then again, not much was hot on the market, as the entire city had fled to battle against the Turk Army, claiming they would destroy ShinRa's roots once and for all.  
  
The paint was flaking off of the walls, a few chair-pieces were scattered round, and the kitchen smelled of rotting vegetables. The only thing mostly-intact was the living room, in all its original glory with a recliner, two couches, a table, a fireplace, and a television with a cracked screen in the far corner. Yuffie had also attempted popcorn, the evidence a blackened cob just to the right of Reno's green tea. The actual popcorn was suspected to be in the fire somewhere.  
  
"Plan ahead and know how to get it out," was what he'd said, before she had broken into a fit of laughter and he himself had just stood there chuckling. "Please tell me why in Hell you're here? I'm getting unnerved."  
  
She grinned and stood on her couch, leaping over the table and landing comfortably next to him, blowing some hair out of her eyes. Half of her tea was now reflecting the flames in the wall, in an almost-straight line across the table, but she miraculously managed to hold onto some of it. "Rude said you'd calm down around me because you think I'm hot." She was quite the blunt, perky girl, wasn't she?  
  
Reno tried to sink into the shell with the Demon, snorting and rolling his eyes. "I think he mistook me. I believe my exact words were, "Boy, I bet she'd look good in flames."" He was lying through his teeth, but Tseng had also taught him that, the bloody bastard. He figured she wouldn't buy it.  
  
And she didn't. Opening her mouth and revealing two full rows of straight, sparkling teeth, she grasped him in a bear-hug, or at least her own equivalent of one. "Aw, you big dope! I love ya, too!" Now she was just being mocking, and she loved every minute of it. It wasn't as if she didn't eye him in some of their earlier fights during the Meteor crisis, first seeing him in Gonaga and hoping to run into him again throughout the rest of their journey, which AVALANCHE did indeed do.  
  
Reno gently pried her off, then rubbed at his arm, as if trying to get the feeling out of it. Truthfully, he was trying to rub it in. He glanced at his watch as he did, and swore beneath his breath. "Damn. Almost three in the morning... Time to get to work." He downed the rest of his tea and stood up, peeling off his coat and shirt and tossing them onto the arm of the hole-dotted couch. He stared at the other Wutain expectantly. "Two things. One, you'll die in that outfit, and two, does your old man still keep Ditchers around?"  
  
Ditchers had been used years and years ago on plantations, and their name pretty much gave away the secret of their ability. It was a large, slow, expensive machine, available only in the island town they were in at this time. They had two large, metal blades that jutted straight into the ground when the cab was lowered, and then separated the soil, creating a ten-foot-long, six-foot-wide ditch with mounds of dirt on either side. They were usually used when a mass suicide, genocide, or a fatal disease occurred. What he needed one now for was beyond the young woman.  
  
"What, you want me to strip down to nothing before I even figure out what you're doing with my dad's machines?" she asked, feigning shock. She could've expected just that from Reno, and knowing him, he'd be perfectly serious.  
  
"Whatever floats your boat." He was cocky, even as an assumed-mature adult, and humor was never below him, always served with a crooked grin and a thumbs-up.  
  
She snorted and just tossed off her coat as well. "Typical male. Typical you, I should say. I think Godo's got about two of those hidden away in some big warehouse near Costa. What the hell do you need a Ditcher for?" She had a hard enough time keeping her eyes on his nose; one look into his eyes would buckle her knees, and anything below would have her drooling like a sixth-grader. God, she was actually worse than she thought, and with Rude's words still in the air, she worried herself.  
  
Pausing and then smirking, the apparently-Demonless General poured their bucket of water on the fire and headed for the door. "Consider it...a contribution to the war effort on Godo's part..."  
  
Outside, he opened his phone and hit the button he had hit the previous day. The Demon needed to get back to Costa, lick a few bypassers to make sure its flames would still be enough to dominate Strife's army, and then find those machines.  
  
-  
  
Act Ten: Six Feet Deep  
  
Back on the battlefield, standing high on their hill, the new General of the Turk Army stood, as appointed by Reno until he returned. Seeing as how Shadow was as mad as the Demon, and Propeller, though a joy of a friend, lacked leadership skills, Reno had whispered to Rude, just before getting off the plane, that he was in command until they returned.  
  
Things changed everyday. Just last night, someone desiring to prove the ignorance of the Army had led a small pack of them on a chase, and then hurled a grenade straight into the air. To Rude's horror, they actually fell for it, and an arm was reported to have come down twenty-three feet from the small crater.  
  
And if things couldn't get any worse, Reno had paperwork, for God's sake. The one day in his life he had a bill to sign, or even a form to fill out, Rude was in charge of it. That was the way he'd planned it, or else it was an odd trick by fate to make sure the Fire Demon never ruled the world by signing an agreement in one of his many drunken stupors. Reno had dismissed it for dumb luck the first time Rude had noticed and queried.  
  
For the first time, Rude was making some large changes. Not only were their strategies better, but the AVALANCHErs' forces had been pushed back against the Rocket Town border. Highwind was ready to start busting out the salvos, as said the last person from their side that had spoken to him, but so far nothing was happening. The Cueball Combatant had ditched the guns for a more effective, better aimed device: the crossbow.  
  
Rude had owned the thing since grade school, always making improvements on it, tightening so and so, so it could fly this much farther, removing this and that to get it to hold steady. He had finally come up with a deadly weapon: an old-fashioned, high-powered crossbow with a scope that could let an arrow fly three-hundred feet and imbed itself in the spot he had aimed it, down to a gil-sized margin of error.  
  
That barely mattered when you were aiming at someone's chest. The crossbow was Rude's toy, his "baby", if you could call anything he might've owned one of those. He now just sat on a cliff, a little up from the unofficial watch tower, picking off anyone he selected as too close, sometimes just letting one fly as far as possible and listening for a scream. Sometimes it came, other times nothing.  
  
As for the "paperwork", Reno probably didn't want to see it. Rude read over it again, sighing with each word. When he'd gotten it through his head that the man was serious, he rolled it up, tossed it into the air, and sent it away via a wasted arrow. He remembered it plain and clear.  
  
And this time, the wind was around to listen, but it took the words as well. And the first were enough to light the half-inch fuse of Reno. Rude repeated them once, then let an arrow fly furiously.  
  
"You are cordially invited..." He didn't know why Elena had accepted any kind of proposal with Reno waiting, but maybe it had something to do with the fact that he wasn't. No, these days all she had to look forward to was another day with the Demon, be it in a quiet conference or standing on the hill with he and the Cueball Combatant.   
  
For once, he missed the wind. Standing on the hill just wasn't the same if Gold-Touch and the Demon weren't there, admittedly, but being there without wind to yell into was just right out. The sun blazed overhead, only wisps of cirrus clouds to lower its intensity. The Army was winning the war, but that was by just a hair; any second, Cid Highwind could bring himself into the equation and totally wreak havoc with his salvos, and then what? Then the General would have to formulate a new plan.  
  
And if he wasn't back by the time Highwind did just that, Rude didn't know what he could do to save the empire they were so bent on keeping in a thriving state.  
  
On such a clear day, the Combatant could faintly see the hovering airship as it passed back and forth across the field, taking few shots because everyone knew it had been made for war. He let an arrow fly toward it, but it fell horribly short and disappeared into ground the same shade as his skin, which told stories of his deep-rooted Mideel lineage.  
  
The Combatant inside of him, not nearly as feared as the Fire Demon that made most men cower when Reno passed them, told him to run. Run down the hill, and if you make it, kill all those fuckers for killing your best friend, it whispered seductively, where women had once sighed his name, tingling areas he'd forgotten existed.  
  
His womanizing days would have made Don Corneo blush. But now Rude was gone, replaced by some strange variation of him, or maybe just the Combatant. Elena had once taken him aside, told him with fearful tones that she had seen his eyes glaze over as the Demon General's did, asked him please, please don't follow his friend's footsteps and leave her alone.  
  
He'd hugged her then, and for a moment it was Rude and Elena, brother and sister, comrade and comrade, standing on the hill in the midst of all this carnage. But briefly, everything had been fine when the Combatant muttered to the Woman of Gold that, should Reno never reemerge, that Rude would never leave her on her own. For just a few seconds, they had been peaceful again.  
  
"I should kill him for what he's doing to you, 'Lena. Bullet right in the skull. Pow, and he'd be gone, the war would be over with. Right now, nobody can imagine how much that would help, but c'mon; ending the war would save so many lives, leave just peace, maybe even let us live happily somewhere."  
  
By the time Rude realized the Combatant had taken control of his mind, it was almost too late; he'd nearly convinced himself that the best way to go was down the path of Shadow, and then Tseng. As a fevered "No!" gasped from his lips, the Combatant retreated to its holding place to build its own strength up; to come back next time and stop this madness.  
  
To kill that bastard Reno for all he'd done to --  
  
The bald man swung out and hit a boulder, his skin tearing and his hand skipping off the rock as if it were a bird smashing into a window. The bird never won, and as he looked at his gashed fist, he realized that his hand would not be in the running for a Man versus Nature contest any time soon. But this time, the Combatant really did sink back away, and he decided to turn and walk back to the base to take advantage of the momentary quietude.  
  
As he was opening the door to step inside -- he would certainly need to get his hand bandaged, he mused as he glanced back once more to where he, Elena, and Reno stood so often in complete silence -- it flew open, seemingly on its own accord. Swearing at the door having slammed into his hand, the Cueball Combatant returned to Rude's mind and he gave the man standing there, Mark, a withering look.  
  
The man apologized quickly, saluting. The sunlight glinted annoyingly off of his miner hat, but Rude knew this was a nice man, and so the decision arose to hear his piece before doing anything terribly drastic with the crossbow in his healthy hand. "Sir," Mark panted, "the mining team found something!" 


End file.
